An Artist Cyclist

Well, I generally keep my blog to talk about art, but you know... what IS art, anyway?  Living and keeping healthy is an art, after all.  A big part of my life that I don’t talk about is I ride.  I ride a lot.  About five days a week I ride between 8 and 12 miles a day.

The short version of THIS bike ride was: I got dirty, wet and poopy.  But there’s another story.

(This story should be read at the lightning speed of the Veggie Tales’ ‘I love my lips’ narrative.  If you don’t know that narrative, just think, REALLY FAST!)

I ventured out in the sunshine and the first nine miles were beautiful and unremarkable, which, when you’re riding on the streets is a GOOD thing.  But then I noticed a persimmon tree, actually three, and they were dropping their fruit, so I took my camelback off and removed my handy-dandy gallon ziplock, my collection bag, ready for just such a purpose, and began my persimmon pursuit.  Finding most branches too high, I began gleaning under the trees, which turned out to be a battle between me and every six legged creature known to man.  

Then a nice Swedish lady came along and we had a poodle/persimmon conversation and stood eating them together as I continued picking, during which time THE CLOUDS WERE MOVING IN AND IT WAS GETTING DARK. A spatter of rain released and turned into an instant downpour, during which time the nice Swedish lady ran off, pulling her little poodle, Stella, along, who really wanted to stay with me and continue her own dinner of the yummy fruit.  I closed my fruit bag and hopped onto my bike to find that my left cleat wouldn’t attach to the pedal and wove down the path trying to get my foot in and finally stopped, in the pouring rain, to find the problem.  Ahh! Persimmon seed snugged right down into my cleat.

Oh, by the way, did I tell you I finally bought lovely new leather biking gloves, breatheable and filled with gel so make them ergonomically correct and Oh, So Comfey?  So, armed with my nice, brand new gloves, which I love, I proceeded to pull out the pit only to find that it was covered in dog poop.  Stella! How could you.  Thus, my nice gloves, handlebar and left shoe were poo-ied.  As the deluge continued I decided I was grossed out and proceeded to the nearest pond to wash my hands, glove and left shoe, tramping through the mud to do so.  So, if you saw a woman, all muddied and poopy, washing up in the pond in the rain, never fear.  She is sane.  Pretty much.  Thus cleansed I proceeded home.  As I rode onto our street, the rain dissipated and the sun came back out.

Yep.  That’s my story.  And I’m sticking to it.  (rather... it stuck to ME.)

(My lovely shoes, getting a nice suntan after being thoroughly scrubbed.)